The Man Who Would Be King
by frozen-delight
Summary: He's addicted, even to this. [A sort of interior monologue for Crowley at the end of the episode 10x02 "Reichenbach" where he's looking at the picture on his phone.]


Unbetaed, so apologies for any mistakes, as well as for this dreadfully human, non-snarky portrayal of Crowley. :) He's my Philip II.

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><p><strong>The Man Who Would Be King<strong>

There are many pictures on his smartphone. Pictures that could topple half the nations of the globe. Famous faces like Sarah Palin and Justin Bieber can be found alongside less well-known individuals – though the latter are infamous enough in certain informed circles. For instance, there's a bearded gruff man kissing him, blotched skin screaming ALCOHOLIC in bright capital letters. A more important picture than any random stranger would ever guess. It did a lot to help him into his present position, Crowley thinks, smirking, annoyed only for a brief second that he can no longer show his own special brand of gratitude to the man's soul for all eternity. But then a random stranger wouldn't know anything about Crowley's position either. Most people tend to guess Mafia boss – a bit unimaginative, but not the most unflattering comparison.

New to his collection is this flimsy snapshot of him and Dean, sitting at a bar, drinks in hand, cowboy hats on their heads, grins in place. It's the opposite of important. The relic of a misguided investment. Obsolete, really. But he's looking at it all the same.

He remembers the day. The bar was filthy, the air obscene, the cowboy hat itched on his head. He would have liked nothing better than to complain loudly, whisk them away from that sleazy bar, put an end to all the tedious brawling nonsense and get back to business in a shiny, well-insulated five-star-suite. After a good bath. He had to keep telling himself to play along, howl at the moon, howl, howl; anything to softly, unobtrusively dig his claws into Dean Winchester's soul until he'd twisted it into doing whatever his King and his Hell wanted him to, the biggest, deadliest asset of them all.

On the picture, though, his big plan doesn't seem to be at the forefront of his mind. He doesn't seem to be paying any attention to the filth either, or to the itching on his head. Heck, he seems to be enjoying himself.

Looking at it, something moves inside his stomach, a slow, tugging sensation, as painful as it is pleasurable. _Wistfulness_, he labels it with a certain relish.

He's addicted, even to this. Dean Winchester isn't the only one who has trouble picking a side.

You can't rule hell and treasure the whole loathsome, delectable range of human feelings.

You can't be king and have an equal.

You just can't.

Except…

Well here's the crux – when you're beside yourself, nothing seems more distasteful than to just be yourself again. Even if it means being the undisputed King of Hell with perks like a virgin, a deal and a massacre each day, free from taxes.

Damn those Winchesters and the messes they leave behind, upsetting half the planet's ecosystem, never glancing back. Careless, mindless, bratty denim-clad drags. It's just possible that he's grown a little soft, a little lazy, and made the unforgivable mistake of underestimating them like all his moronically cocky predecessors, may they never rest in peace.

Won't happen again.

They'll have a tough time of it with the Mark and all it entails, he knows they will. And maybe, just maybe, the next time they meet, they'll find that it's the other way round and they've actually underestimated _him_. He's only lost a knight, or maybe a rook, but certainly not the whole game.

His assistants are saying something. It doesn't matter. Business seems a lot duller than it did a day go. Hell, even _Hell_ seems pretty dull again.

The last weeks were awful, most of the time. Ludicrous. Absurd. A constant annoyance. An imposition!

_But never dull._

Out of the corner of his eye he catches sight of a little red pitchfork. Taunting, tacky plastic. He seems to have ordered himself the same drink Dean got for him earlier that day, right down to the lurid umbrella, and he's not entirely sure how that happened. Habit. Dangerous thing, that.

He's picked up several he really, really ought to kick.

Well, he's always been better at bringing others into line than himself. Talk of leader genes.

So what should he do next? Torture a couple of souls, smite a handful of demons? Abaddon's followers might all be dead, but there's plenty of others. Fortunately, demons are by nature stupid and traitorous. Child's play to find a culprit. So yes, why not? A little auto-da-fé would be just the thing.

Rising, he pockets the phone. He doesn't delete the picture. There's only so much cheesiness anyone can stomach without losing face, even the King of Hell. It's all PR. And math. And insurance. You never know what it might still be good for. He's already taken over terrorist groups and governments with less. It's got nothing to do with the fact that he might just like to take a look at it again. Of course not.

He takes the Blade, his now for keeps, forever and for worse, and smiles to himself.


End file.
